The Beach Trip Nora Was Left Out Of

What Curt Said

Curt had not moved. He had set the cooler by the door and stood beside it with his hands empty. He had not looked at my father once since the phone call. He was looking at Nora.

“Cin,” he said quietly. “I need to say something.”

“Say it to her.”

He got down on the lobby carpet in his fishing-trip shorts, in front of a seven-year-old with a half-eaten strawberry cone, his big hands dangling between his knees. I have known my husband fifteen years and I had never seen him look so small.

“Nora. Bug. When Grandpa said what he said, and I said yes, that was wrong. That was on me. And before the picnic.” He swallowed. “I took your name off the list. Thursday. Grandpa asked me to. He said it was just a seat count. I did it and I did not tell your mom.”

I did not breathe.

“You didn’t do one thing wrong,” he told her. “I was a coward, and I’m sorry.”

“Curt,” my father said behind him.

It was the voice. The weather, the envelope in the Elks parking lot, folded into one word. I saw Curt flinch, and the muscle in his jaw go tight. Then slowly my husband stood and turned around.

“No, Leon.”

“After everything I’ve done for you.”

“I know what you did. I’ll pay back every dollar. I’ll sell the truck if I have to.” He picked up the cooler and set it deliberately at my father’s feet. “Here are your sandwiches. I’m not riding back with you.”

“You’ll regret this.”

“Yes sir. I expect I will. But I’d regret the other thing more.”

He crossed to the bench and stood a careful yard from me, a man waiting to learn whether he was allowed to stay.

“I’m not forgiving you today,” I said, low.

“I know.”

“That is not something you fix in a lobby.”

“I know. I’m not asking.”